De Profundis
What we have not heard
will never help us. What we have not seen
by now will never save. The city
drowned under winter sunlight like a bad
migraine, the bars shut down,
hint of a pandemic in the air, in wind
invisible, the guess and gust of wings.
The pigeons have come home to die.
There are corpses floating in the trees.
There are corpses floating in the trees.
High clouds roll over as on holiday.
The sun, impassive as a president,
palters for time and tide. Once we could pray
with honest hunger for whatever life
drew from its magician’s hat;
now rabbits sicken on the mutant vine
and hunger is our habitat.
We are hungry. We have never been so hungry.
What we have not followed
leads us now. What follows is a thing we never
dreamed. Prisoners storm the empty coliseum.
In its cage, the gaunt heart screams.
Beneath ground, gears and levers
issue another victim to the light.
The trapdoor opens: thunder
erupts like anesthetic through the night.
The bars swing open. We have all gone under.
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